


Head Over Heels

by merelypassingtime



Series: Just Like Heaven [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1980s, Chubby Mycroft, Fluff, Libraries, M/M, Matchmaker Mrs Hudson, Puzzles, Riddles, Secret Admirer, Unicroft, Unilock, University, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: University freshmen Mycroft Holmes has a secret admirer who is leaving a string of puzzles for him to follow in the week leading up to Valentine's Day.





	1. Friday, February 10th

When the clock finally struck eleven Mycroft allowed himself a small sigh of relief knowing that it would be lost in the scuffle as the other students packed away their books and notes. He looked down at his own notes which were a complex analysis of the costs versus the benefits in using his professor's on going tax evasion and fraud to blackmail him so Mycroft would never have to attend this class again written in his own creole of ancient Greek, Phoenician, and Latin. 

Once again suffering through the tedium had won, but the margin was narrowing with every passing class and they were barely a month into the semester. Mycroft thought that next class he would chart the probability that he would complete the class without any blackmail as he slipped the notebook into his bag next to the textbook he had yet to open. He made a show of rearranging his bag for a moment, waiting for the room to mostly empty before joining the line of students chattering and laughing as they filed out of the room. Most of them turned right down the hall towards the nearest dining hall, he turned left towards the library.

Mycroft never ate lunch, hadn't since secondary school. He knew it wasn't a rational decision, that skipping meals was in truth bad for your metabolism and did nothing to facilitate weight loss but he had just been so tired of the snide comments and the not-quite behind his back jokes the other boys made about 'Fatcroft' that he had stopped eating in front of anyone if he could avoid it. It was a habit he had carried into his first year at uni. Last semester he scheduled his classes tightly over the lunch period, this semester he just went in early for his shift in the library.

Taking a job at the library had been another irrational decision on Mycroft's part and one that his adviser had been strongly against. The more the little red-faced man had objected the more Mycroft had found himself politely insisting that he be granted the position. He wasn't entirely sure why he had wanted it so badly even now but as he pushed open the door to the campus's main library and was hit by the hush of the place combined with the intoxicating smell of old books he felt a small bit of himself uncoil and his perpetual mask of superior indifference slipped off his face replaced by a small genuine smile.

In one of his more philosophical moments he had thought that perhaps he loved the library because it was so full of the wisdom, passions, and tragedies of the past that it put all of one's own troubles into perspective. In one of his more practical moments he realized that he loved the library because it gave him an easy sense of belonging. Here he was met with the quiet approval of the librarians as long as he did share of the work and kept his section of the shelves in order and gifted with the unthinking acceptance of his peers. He wasn't 'that Holmes boy,' too clever and cutting to fit in easily and too ungainly and unattractive for anyone to make the effort, he was a comfortable part of the background as accepted and benignly ignored as the girl who would tell anyone who listened how computers were the future and came in everyday to use the library’s Commodore or the dark haired boy who sat at the very back table reading books on criminology.

Today the head librarian Mrs Hudson nodded at him as he walked around the front counter headed towards the sorting room. As he walk past her she rested a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Not much going on today dear, but I would like you sort out the book drop bin before you start on your shelves.”

Mycroft nodded, smile still playing across his face. He never minded doing anything for Mrs Hudson, she was an interesting balance of sweet and unexpectedly crude and often made him a nice cup of tea. After stowing away his book bag he moved to the far wall where the return bin was underneath the return slot. True to Mrs Hudson's word they hadn't been busy and the bin was less than half full, he waded into it with a will. 

It was forty minutes later, as he was bent over almost double fishing the last couple of books out that he saw the cassette tape. He sighed in annoyance. The library had a small audio/visual collection that could be checked out but each of those more fragile pieces had a label on them clearly instructing the patron that the item must be returned to the front desk. Apparently whomever had borrowed this tape had not been able to read the label.

However when he picked the tape up and looked it over for damage to the case it was clear that this was not a part of the library's collection. The warning label and catalog number were missing as was the protective layer of laminate they used on everything. He had already mentally dismissed it as a personal tape put in by accident when he turned it over glancing at paper insert wrapped around the tape and promptly dropped the tape back in the bin.

In bold black marker written a bit untidily across the top two line of the paper was his name.

For a dazed moment all Mycroft could think was, 'But I don't own a cassette player.' Then the much more relevant questions began to pop up, like 'Why is my name on that tape?' and 'There can't be two Mycrofts in the whole city let alone two Mycroft Holmes at this university, right?' Tentatively he picked the tape up again looking for answers. It was still his name on the label, he hadn't imagined that and beneath it were a few lines written in a regular black ballpoint pen. 

**Mycroft Holmes**  
_A name more stately than any poems_

_With Valentine’s day_  
_Well on its way_  
_I hope to have the time_  
_To convince you to be mine_  
_So we'll both be merry and gay_

**From:**  
_Your Secret Admirer_

Again his first thought was a less than helpful, 'Who writes limericks anymore?' before his mind started on a list of anyone who would want to play a mean-spirited Valentine’s Day prank on him. It was not a list at all really. It would have been long list last year but he had been careful to keep to the shadows since starting uni. Aside from his adviser and Mrs Hudson he was pretty sure no one here even knew his name. It was enough to make him curious about the tape. Curious enough that after checking in the last two books and placing them on their shelves he went out to Mrs Hudson and asked, “May I please borrow one of the cassette players?”

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, “Of course. You know where they are kept, right? Or if you'd like I have a Walkman in my desk I use for my jog home. You could borrow that.”

“Thanks Mrs Hudson, I think I will do just that.”

Once he had retrieved the Walkman he retreated to the corner of the library, taking a seat at one of the private study desks as far from the entrance as he could get. The dark hair boy glanced at him briefly before returning to his textbook, otherwise no one was paying him any attention. Mycroft took a breath and pushed play.

He had fully expected the tape to be blank or, failing that, for it to be full of harsh laughter and jeers about how he could ever think that someone would be interested in him. Instead a few bars of piano music greeted his ears before a soft voice sang:

_I've been alone with you_  
_Inside my mind_  
_And in my dreams I've kissed your lips_  
_A thousand times_  
_I sometimes see you_  
_Pass outside my door_  
_Hello!_  
_Is it me you're looking for?_

Mycroft had never listened much to popular music and the song was unfamiliar to him. He listened carefully, a part of his mind deconstructing the simple melody but mostly just recording the lyrics. They couldn't mean what they seemed to, could they?

When the next song started it advised him:

_This is your life_  
_Don't play hard to get_  
_It's a free world_  
_All you have to do is fall in love_  
_Play the game,_  
_Everybody play the game of love_

And the next song went on to say: 

_Something happens and I'm head over heels_  
_Ah, don't take my heart, don't break my heart_  
_Don't, don't, don't throw it away_

Which was pretty unambiguous really. 

Mycroft sat there for almost an hour, well into the official start of his shift at the library. He listened to every song on both sides of the cassette and every song shared the same theme of being in love, of longing for another person, of asking for that affection to be returned.

They weren't professionally recorded by any means, and a distant part of his mind made a note to go back and listen to the gaps between the song where the tape had been stopped and started to record the different songs looking for clues about the recorder. Most of his mind however was just floored by the amount of thought and time that the tape represented. It was almost enough to make him forgive the horrible limerick on the cover.

He knew when he had reached the last song, the little bit of magnetic tape remaining would not be enough for another one, and he was just about to stop the tape when a burst of song surprised him. Clearly this line came from the middle of a song, cutting in in the middle of a word:

_`Cause Saturday night's the night I like_  
_Saturday night's alright alright alright_

Then the music radically shifted to a much slower song, this time a man crooning:

_And everything I had to know_  
_I heard it on my radio_

Then the first song was back for a few seconds, just long enough to let him know that:

_It's seven o'clock and I want to rock_

Scratchy silence filled the rest of the tape, Mycroft made sure to listen all the way to the end before rewinding it to hear the last message again. Then again.

He wasn't sure how many time he listened to the cryptic few lines, trying to work out their meaning before a hand on his shoulder startled him out of his revelry.

Mrs Hudson was standing behind him, “Sorry to interrupt, but we need you to cover the front desk for a while so I can go to lunch.”

Mycroft looked up at her, chagrin in his face. “Of course Mrs Hudson, I am very sorry to be late.” He popped the Walkman open and removed his tape before handing the player back to her. “And thank you for the loan. I am in your debt.”

“Don't worry about it dear, just get over to the desk so I can get out of here, okay?” she said with a fond look.

Mycroft did man the desk for the next couple of hours, checking out books and fielding questions absentmindedly as he considered the best way to go about learning the titles and artists of all the songs on the cassette and turning over the last message.

The rest of the day past in a blur, and he didn't remember anything about his last class, but he did remember to stop on the way back to his room in order to buy his own Walkman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's Mix Tape:
> 
> Hello, by Lionel Richie  
> Play the Game, by Queen  
> Head Over Heals, by Tears for Fears  
> Forever, by KISS  
> Delirious, by Prince  
> When I See You Smile, by Bad English  
> I'll Be There For You, by Bon Jovi  
> Can't Fight this Feeling, by REO Speedwagon  
> Take My Breath Away, by Berlin  
> Is This Love, by Whitesnake  
> Alone, by Heart


	2. Saturday, February 11th

When he awoke early the next morning fragments of song were still chasing one another through Mycroft's head. His first thought was that it was Saturday and that tonight was going to be alright for something apparently on the radio and at seven o'clock. 

He assumed that meant the low-powered campus radio station as surely any of the several other radio stations would have required specific designation. Besides, the afternoon before he had called the campus station and confirmed that while they primarily played only classical music there was an all request show for popular music from five until ten on Saturdays. It seemed logical that his 'Secret Admirer' would be able to call in a request at around seven easily. That is if he did have a secret admirer at all.

The night before Mycroft had lain awake debating that point with himself. He seemed to be trapped between two equally unlikely options. On the one side it was unlikely that any one would spent hours choosing and recording a tape as part of a practical joke, especially one that didn't have any pay off in sight. He could see a prankster slipping a card to him, setting up a meeting, and bringing his friends to laugh but he couldn't see anyone setting up a days long game with riddles and poetry for such a small pay off. 

Surely there was no one who bore him that much animosity, at least not here at the university. The few enemies he had made in secondary school hadn't followed him there, besides none of them had been this clever or determined. It was the sort of joke that Sherlock might play never thinking how cruel it might be, but he was safely away at boarding school and if anything his knowledge of popular music was even worse than Mycroft's.

Still it was even more unlikely that someone simply liked him. Indeed it was almost vanishingly impossible. Mycroft had no illusions about that and hadn't for a long time. He was not a handsome boy, nor was he pleasant or popular. There was nothing about him that could be found attractive. Really being gay was was the icing on the cake of his life of confirmed bachelorhood. It wasn't even something he had taken the time to be upset about, it just was the way it was. The sky was blue, Margaret Thatcher was rather arrogant, and Mycroft Holmes was always going to be alone. 

Now someone had noticed him, had gone to the trouble, for good or for ill, to engage him and, despite himself, he was flattered and intrigued. Oh, he told himself that he was only playing along to learn the person's endgame, that listening to the radio that night was only logical seeing as how it would give him more information without any chance of repercussions, but he knew that in reality he just wanted his secret admirer to be real, he wanted it desperately if he were honest. Hope felt strange and heavy in his heart, weighting him down and seriously disrupting his thoughts. The several hours before the next clue loomed ahead of him, empty and daunting. 

The day dragged out interminably, despite all Mycroft's efforts to fill it. He took a shift at the library, where he spent a great deal of time checking back issues of Rolling Stones trying to identify the titles and artists of the songs on his tape with mixed results. Surprisingly Mrs Hudson turned out to be a fount of knowledge about modern music once he was sufficiently frustrated to ask her for help. Between the two of them they were able to put names to nine out of the eleven songs. And while he realized that knowing the titles was extremely unlikely to provide any further hints to the identity of his supposed admirer he also appreciated the distraction the search provided and the time it used.

Even so Mycroft felt like the hours until seven passed like decades, like centuries, like geological epochs. He was mildly amazed that he survived the wait. 

The library closed at five, which suited Mycroft fine. Quickly he made his way back to his room to tune into the campus request show, knowing he was hours early. He told himself that he was just listening for either of the as yet unidentified songs but he know he just couldn't stand the idea of missing the next clue. Similarly he told himself that he was working on his classwork with the radio as background noise even though the intensity with which he focused on the idiotic DJ's voice between each song betrayed the lie there.

It being the weekend before Valentine’s Day almost every song on the radio was dedicated to someone or other. Mycroft listened to each sappy, poorly written declaration of love with increasing disdain. He had never seen the point behind Valentine’s, or really any holiday, before and two hours of messages no more heartfelt or intelligent then, “Hey Jessie, you rock! I hope on Tuesday you'll shake me all night long!” had done nothing to change his opinion.

By seven he was barely containing his contempt for the whole of humanity. Of course he was also barely breathing, filled with dread and anticipation.

His clock flipped over to seven in the middle of a song about being hot blooded and Mycroft gave up any pretense of school work to listen. 

The song ended at 7:02 and the annoying DJ was back on, “Okay kiddies, next we have another special request for our all love all the time show tonight. Now this one is for a mate of mine, and he made me promise to read it out right at seven. He also made me promise to read it word for word. Never let it be said that Mad Mike is a bad friend! So here we go: 'Moths cry Flome then in parenthesis it says not misspelled, and my eyes have been dewy since I first checked you out. Hopefully this song will give you an important number of reasons to search me out tomorrow. From your Secret Admirer.' Alright, and here is your request. Just remember you owe me a round now!” The end of the man's little speech was mercifully cut off by the beginning of the song, a single guitar thrumming before the other instruments joined in with a 'Hey!' and a man sang:

_Jenny I've got your number_  
_I need to make you mine_  
_Jenny don't change your number_  
_Eight six seven five three oh nine_

He dutifully wrote as many of the words as he could down on the page under where he had written out the request verbatim. When the song was finished Mycroft stared down at the words, puzzled. 

Was he suppose to go find a girl named Jenny for his next clue? Or was his admirer a girl named Jenny? That would be rather awkward, what with him being gay. He didn't exactly advertise it, knowing that no one who hoped to go into a public position could be openly homosexual, but he also didn't really try very hard to hide it either. But no, the DJ had specifically referred to the writer of the message as 'he,' hadn't he?

Mycroft sighed and felt worn out by the day of fretting. He decided that he would call it a early night.

Maybe the morning would bring him better clarity of thought.


	3. Sunday, February 12th

One of the first things Mrs Hudson had done in her tenure as head librarian had been to insist that the main library be open for a few hours on Sunday. Apparently there had been quite a row over it at the beginning of the school year between her and the more conservative members of the governing board. Mycroft was thankful this morning that Mrs Hudson had come out triumphant in that fight, saving him the effort of breaking into the building to retrieve his next clue.

He did not have any trouble in the more rational light of morning deciphering the dedication of the song from last night. Indeed, in retrospect, it was embarrassingly simple. Had he been in the mood to defend himself he could have pointed out that the 'Moths cry flome' bit was rather obscure and had drawn his focus from the hints that had followed it. When he had attacked the statement more systematically it had taken very little effort to connect 'dewy' and 'checked out' into where the 'important number' in the song would lead him. The hardest part after that had been waiting for the library to open at noon though it had given him the time to work out the meaning to 'moths cry flome' only to be embarrassed again at not spotting the anagram sooner. Something about this situation definitely had him off balance and functioning as less than his best, but he couldn't find it in him to be upset about the loss of efficacy.

There was a small group of students gathered at the door when Mycroft arrived at the library ten minutes before it opened, a clear vindication of Mrs Hudson's insistence on being open weekends. He considered going around to the staff entrance and knocking to be let in but in the end he decided that a few minutes of waiting were not going to kill him. Well, probably not anyways, he amended as he joined the shuffling crowd.

He was so busy contemplating the next clue he was so painfully close to uncovering that the hand gently touching his arm came as a complete surprise, causing him to jump and let out possibly the least dignified squeak in the long, rich history of mankind. He felt himself turning pink as he looked up into the grinning face of the boy who often sat in the back of the library during his shift. 

This close to him for the first time Mycroft couldn't help noticing how dazzlingly warm the boy's grin was or how lovely his deep brown eyes were. He could not remember the last time he had thought anything was lovely at all. To his horror the blush started by his squeak was still spreading across his face. Reflexively he blurted out, “Sorry.” then wondered why he was apologizing for having been grabbed. 

The boy just grinned wider, “No, I am sorry. I called your name a couple of times but I guess you didn't hear me.”

“Yes, I am afraid I was very much lost in thought.”

“Pretty deep thought for so early on a weekend, right?” 

“I guess,” Mycroft replied, nonplussed by the boy's friendly tone. “I am sorry, did you need something?”

“Oh, not really. Sorry. Um... I am Greg, Greg Lestrade. We had Economics together last term?” he ended with an upward infliction, making the statement a question.

Mycroft shifted through his mostly repressed memories of the dull class and sure enough the image of this boy sitting at a desk close to the front of the lecture hall, bent over taking studious notes came to mind. It was not at all that he had failed to notice the boy, it was more that he had taken one look at his causal good looks and athletic build and dismissed him as someone he would never have any call to interact with. Cautiously he agreed, “Yes...” trailing the word off into a question of his own.

The boy ran his hand across the back of his head, mussing up his already untidy brown hair and shifting from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I didn't think you'd remember me, but I remember you. That day the teacher was talking about how great the European Currency Unit is and you ripped into him about the system's flaws and how within fifteen years the whole system will have to be replaced with an actual currency while he stood there and goggled at you. Then he threw you out of the class. That was great.”

Ah yes, Mycroft recalled that day. He had snapped at bit from the boredom and let his temper go. And while this boy, Greg, was right that the expression on the teacher's face had been amusing, it had been nothing like as good as the one the man had worn the next day when Mycroft had stopped by his office with note cards outlining exactly why he was right complete with facts and numbers. He had been allowed grudgingly back into the class in exchange for the teacher being allowed to keep the note cards. One paper had already been published using Mycroft's outline and Mycroft was very much looking forward to having influence over the man later down the road. He smiled at the thought and to his amazement Greg smiled back.

“Somehow you were back for the next lecture. I always wondered how you got back into the class. I have to say that watching the teacher fail at ignoring you for the rest of term was the best part of that whole class.” He briefly met Mycroft's eyes before looking down to his shuffling his feet again. “So when I saw you over here waiting too I thought maybe I'd just come over and maybe catch up with you.”

No one ever just wanted to talk to him, Mycroft thought. Particularly anyone who had seen him at his most cutting and Holmesian. Yet, here was this boy, smiling kindly at him like he thought Mycroft was a source of humor rather than a target for it. It was a situation so unprecedented that it caught him utterly wrong footed. 

It must have shown on his face because Greg's smile slipped and his next statement was less sure. “I mean, if you wanted to catch up at all. If not that is fine too.” he said, taking a step away from where Mycroft realized that he had been standing quite close to him. “Um, sorry to have interrupted your thoughts.” He turned to leave.

Immediately and without planning to Mycroft reached out and placed a restraining hand on Greg's arm. “No, it is fine. I was just surprised. Stay.” 

Just like that the beautiful grin was back and Mycroft felt something strange turn over in his chest. He told himself that a bit of small talk would be good practice and might even help pass the time. He didn't really believe himself though.

The next few minutes flew by as he chatted with Greg, comparing classes and trading the sort of polite getting to know you questions that Mycroft usually detested. When Mrs Hudson came to unlock the library doors he was almost disappointed. The two moved with the crowd through the doors into the building and Mycroft hesitated a moment trying to think of how to best end the conversation. 

With what seemed to be his usual easy charm Greg beat him to the goodbyes, he said simply, “Guess it is back to the books for both of us, eh? It has been nice talking to you Mycroft.” He even made it sound like he meant it.

“A pleasure, Greg.” Mycroft replied. He started to hold out his hand to shake Greg's, decided halfway through that it was too formal, and tried to turn the motion into an odd little wave. He felt his cheeks flaming up red again.

Greg mirrored the wave as if it had been a normal gesture to make and with a last grin said, “See you around.” 

Mycroft doubted he would ever talk to the boy again but he nodded gamely as they parted, Greg heading back to his usual table and Mycroft turning left towards the other half of the non-fiction section.

He didn't even manage two steps towards his goal before being accosted by Mrs Hudson. He very successfully hid his sigh of frustration.

“Mycroft what are you doing here? You don't work today!”

“No, I know I don't Mrs Hudson but I needed a book for a project I am working on.”

“Dear you work too hard, always here working or studying. It is no wonder you are always so pale.”

“Unfortunately pale is just a part of my genetics, like the red hair and the roundness. There is nothing I can do to alter it.”

“Oh, I don't know, you have a bit of color in your cheeks right now.” she said, then cast a sly glance in the direction Greg had gone. “Nice young man you were talking to out there.”

Mycroft shot her a quick look, wondering what she was trying to imply.

Mrs Hudson just returned his gaze, adding, “It is good to see you looking so happy for a change. You know you really should get out of the library more often, go enjoy your youth! Why when I was your age..”

But Mycroft was a veteran of Mrs Hudson's recollections of her younger years, and while often interesting and always off-color he did not have the patience for them right now. Not with a clue so close. “Thank you Mrs Hudson,” he interrupted. “I will take it under advisement. Right now though I need to get that book for my class so I can go out and follow your wisdom in seizing this day.”

“Oh, of course, dear. Don't mind me. I best get back to the circulation desk anyhow.” She gave him a pat on the arm as she bustled off to her post freeing him to continue his quest.

Quickly he reached the set of shelves marked 824.6 through 912.4. Turning down the aisle way he began to scan through the rows of books with the ease of several weeks spent working in a library. The small section of Spanish language literature turned out to be on a bottom shelf, and Mycroft bend over to look through them. Then he blinked in bewilderment. There was not book with the Dewey Decimal number 867.5309.

For a second Mycroft wondered if he had been wrong, but the hints were all there leading him here to the library and to this shelf. It had to be here. He leaned in to look more closely, running a finger along the spines of the old books until he reached the spot his book should have been in, his finger coming to rest on a book of Spanish poetry that should not have been there. True it was only three books to the right of its rightful place, an easy mistake to make, but still hope flared up in his chest as he pulled it out. 

Holding it flat with one hand he leafed through the pages, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He found it about a third of the way through the book, a folded sheet of paper stuck in the pages marking a poem titled, “El dia que me quieras.” Spanish was not his strongest language but he certainly knew it well enough to grasp the gist of the poem and he knew that he had a foolish smile on his face reading it.

He snapped the book shut, the paper still folded within and took it to the desk to check out.

Only when he was safely back in his own room did he reopen the book and remove the paper. Unfolding it he read:

_Tomorrow at the stroke of eleven, as ends your class_  
_Your usual pattern please do bypass_  
_from the room's exit do not go to the right_  
_then take a step for every year Alexander lived to fight_

Straight forward enough, he thought, though he was a bit disappointed to have another day to wait. 

Sighing he traced over the bold, messy handwriting and wondered who in the world could be setting these steps up for him. Could someone really care enough to go through all this effort just to entertain him? Why?

Tomorrow was Monday and Mycroft had thought about going to the campus radio station and finding out who 'Mad Mike' was then interrogating him until he revealed the name of the man who had given him the request from last night. Now he found that he didn't want to anymore. It would be disrespectful to whomever had gone to all this work no matter what their motivations turned out to be.

He spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening reading a thick Latin history of the life of Alexander the Great, not because he felt he needed the knowledge for tomorrow's challenge but for something to do.

When he lay in bed that night trying to fall asleep by pushing aside his questions about his secret admirer he found he had to force out memories of the handsome, friendly boy Greg as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem the folded paper marked was “The day when you love me,” by Amado Nervo. It starts:
> 
>  
> 
> _The day when you love me_  
>  _The day that you love me will have more light than June;_  
>  _The night that you love me it will be of full moon,_  
>  _with notes of Beethoven vibrating in every beam_  
>  _of indescribable things,_  
>  _and there will be together more roses_  
>  _that in every May._


	4. Monday, February 13th

If class had crawled by slowly before Mycroft lacked the vocabulary to describe how glacially it seemed to be moving now and he had an exemplary vocabulary. At first he did follow through on his plan to chart the likely date he would resort to blackmail to get out of the class but his current state of agitation was throwing off his calculations. He was unused to taking into account emotional factors.

That realization started him on a list of advantages versus the disadvantages of allowing emotions to cloud his mind. By the end of the class he had a full page of disadvantages and in the advantages column a single solitary note surmising that it might prove useful practice should he ever suffer a concussion and be forced to think with reduced capacity. Even he knew that was more of an excuse than a reason. Still he couldn't write down the simple truth, that it was making him happy. He told himself that defending sentiment by using sentiment was a logical fallacy. He also knew that the last couple of days had been, well, fun. There was no other word in his exemplary vocabulary for it. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken so much simple joy in life.

When class was dismissed at eleven Mycroft took one last look at his myriad of reasons to ignore his secret admirer's next direction before packing it away. 

Again he was the last student out of the hall and once again he turned left. This time however he began counting his steps.

Thirty-two steps took him out the doors and out into the courtyard and the drizzling rain. Actually, thirty-one steps took him out into the rain, the thirty-second step would have taken him over the plain brown paper bag sitting in the middle of the pathway.

The rain had begun to soak into the folded top of the bag but not by much. Mycroft knew it could not have been sitting there for long. He glanced around quickly, looking for anyone paying too much attention or loitering suspiciously in the rain. The courtyard was almost empty though, the few students walking quickly between the building.

He looked back down at the bag, wishing he had brought an umbrella so he could take time to thoroughly examine it without worrying about it soaking through. The top was folded over several time and held closed by a single staple. His first impulse was to rip into the bag to see what his admirer had planned for him next. Two things stopped him, the first was the fact that the next couplet was written in bold marker right across the front of the bag and the second was the small number '1' printed over the fold implying there was at least one more bag sitting out there being soaked by the rain.

He picked the bag up, noting that there was a somewhat smudged X underneath it in white chalk. It was not terribly heavy and he had to resist the temptation to open it. Rather he focused on the writing:

_If to the left you will be led_  
_Take a step for every time Henry VIII wed_

Mycroft looked to his left. Six steps wasn't all that far and he should have been able to see the next objective but he ended up having to actually take the requested course before he made out another small brown bag partially hidden in a shrubbery. It also had a couplet of directions on it.

The next twenty minutes flew by as Mycroft moved around the small courtyard, counting paces and collecting bags. It would have taken less time but he had been at a loss over one of the clues about a particular Shakespeare sonnet and had been forced to walk back and forth in the indicated direction several times before he spotted the sack behind a tree. 

By the time he reached what seemed to be the last stop his shoes were coated in mud and the cuffs of his trousers were soaked through from trampling across the grass despite the dozens of signs that told him to keep off said grass. He also suspected that his blazer was ruined by the rain and he was losing a battle against gravity as it pertained to several soggy paper bags but none of that seemed important. 

The trail ended at one of the moss-grown stone benches along the perimeter of the courtyard, where the grass gave way to the thicker brush and trees that concealed the surrounding stone walls. This bench was partially sheltered by a massive oak and half of it was further sheltered by a black umbrella. As he walked closer he could see something white underneath it. A few more steps and it resolved into a thick Styrofoam cup adorned with more black letters. On top of it was a white envelope with yet more writing on it.

Crouching down in front of the bench he read the letters on the side of the cup. Rather than another couplet it had a single sentence on it:

_You suit me to a 'tea'_

Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes at the terrible pun. He looked next at the envelope which did sport a poem, though not one with a further puzzle he was relieved to see:

_Though it maybe deary with rain_  
_and the sky maybe dull and grey_  
_My care for you will never wain_  
_and your smile will brighten my day_  
**(But really, sorry about the weather today. Hope the umbrella helps.)**

And Mycroft found that he was smiling broadly. Again he looked around for someone watching him and again he found no one, everyone else would be at lunch or in class at this time. 

He thought about his options and briefly considered trying to add the cup and umbrella to his already full arms and heading back to the library to open them. Instead he decided that the stone bench was not too wet and he was not nearly cold enough to suffer any more of a delay in finding out what the bags contained.

With care he juggled the bags in his arms until he found the first one, then began lining them up on the bench. He picked up the umbrella and sat down with it cradled between his shoulder and neck, providing just enough cover for them, himself, and the tea.

Excitedly he picked up the bag marked one and started working the staple out of the fold. When it finally came free he held his breath as he lifted out what turned out to be a small cling film covered paper plate full of little squares of cheese. His held breath huffed out of him in surprise. Given a hundred guesses he knew he never would have thought the bag would be full of cheese. There was a note attached to it with red ribbon and he turned it over curiously and read:

_I hope this isn't too 'cheesy' for you_

Again the pun caused an involuntary eye roll. Between this and the pun on the tea, Mycroft now thought he had a pretty good idea where this was going. He reached out to pick up the next bag and had he theory confirmed. By the time all the bags were open he was surrounded by food and had a whole narrative of puns to accompany it:

_I hope to 'meat' you soon_  
_because I am 'crackers' for you_  
_You drive me 'bananas'_  
_but I think we'd be a great 'pear'_  
_since you are un-'berry'-ably sweet_  
_and you really take the 'cake'_

If asked before that moment Mycroft would have dismissed puns as a small step above slap-stick as far as humor went, now he had to admit that when properly used they could be rather charming. 

He moved the envelope off the cup of tea and removed the lid, finding that it was still warm. A small sip confirmed that it was also made just the way he took it, with milk and a fair bit of sugar. Mentally he filed that away as yet another question to be investigated before removing the cling film from the cheese, crackers, and meat plates and assembled a little sandwich for himself. As he chewed it he shrugged his bag off his back and rested it on the grass in front of him and dug around in it for his Walkman. 

For the first time in years Mycroft ate lunch at school, sitting in the gentle rain under a stranger's umbrella, listening to his mix tape. It was blissful and relaxing and he was sad when one side of the tape ended and he knew he needed to pack up and head for his shift at the library.

As he put the folded bags in between his textbooks he looked again at the unopened envelope. It would certainly be better to wait and open it when he got to the library and could use a letter opener on a flat surface he thought as he slipped a finger under the flap and tore it open rather messily. It seemed patience was not going to be one of his virtues at all today.

Inside he found another short note tied with ribbon, this time it was tied around some sort of ticket. This note read:

**I would B-8ful if you would B-9 tomorrow at the Royal Cinema, six o'clock.**

He felt his breath catch in his throat. Of course, tomorrow was Valentine's Day and the end of the game. The day when, for good or for ill, he would finally find out who his admirer was. He didn't know why he had thought the engaging puzzles would continue indefinitely when there had always been a stated end point but he knew he had.

Now, knowing that in just over twenty-four hours he would be confronted with the truth, he was terrified and maybe just a bit excited, but mostly terrified. What if it turned out to be a woman or someone someone else he just could never like that way. What if even with all the effort and the clever clues it still turned out to have been a cruel prank. What if, once they actually met him his secret admirers would hate him for the cutting sarcasm he couldn't repress and the lingering baby fat he couldn't hide.

Mycroft hastily swallowed down the dregs of the now cold tea to soothe his suddenly dry mouth and worked to push the thoughts away. They were doing him no good and he was close to being late for his shift for the second time in one week. He placed the ticket back into its envelope and placed it in the pages of the history he was reading. 

Then he took the empty cracker plate and put it over the uneaten cake to try to prevent it from being crushed when he put it in his bag, saving it for later. Briefly he thought about offering to share it with Mrs Hudson over tea or maybe even with Greg if he was back at his table today, but he decided against it. Not only was the library draconian in their no food policy in an understandable effort to keep mice away from the many rare old books, it also just didn't feel right to share a gift.

Besides, he rather thought that he would need something to look forward to this evening other than his own self doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the other clues on the bags, alas, not in proper couplet form.
> 
> Number of times Caesar was stabbed  
> Number of years Oliver Cromwell ruled  
> Number of circles in Dante's Inferno  
> Number of of the Prime Minister’s house  
> Number of Shakespeare's sonnet, “How shall I compare thee...”  
> Number of years Odysseus wandered in the Odyssey


	5. Tuesday – Valentine's Day (Morning and Afternoon)

In the more than five hundred year history of the noble house of Holmes not once had a member missed a day of scholastic pursuit. Even during the deadly Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 Mycroft's grandfather Horace had attended every one of his classes at Eton and further had written a strongly worded letter to Mycroft's headmaster when the school had been given a day off at the conclusion of the Falkland War. Still, after a nearly sleepless night and with nervousness turning like acid in his stomach Mycroft skipped both this classes that morning in favor or having a lay-in and worrying more. He very much hoped that Grandfather Horace would not find out about it.

By nine o'clock he had admitted failure in his plan to sleep late and by noon he had cleaned his room, reorganized his sock drawer, and used a ruler to precisely align all the books on his shelves. He had also gone through this entire wardrobe, selected what he considered to be his three best outfits and re-ironed them, polished his nicest shoes, and tried not to think about how much he was behaving like a teenage girl in an American romantic comedy.

For his own sanity and to protect his possessions from further obsessive cleaning he decided to go to his afternoon lecture. He doubted it would make the time pass any more quickly but he hoped that it would.

It did not. Although the class was usually one of his favorites he could not focus on what the professor was saying any more than he could sit still in his seat. Mycroft looked down at the blank page that should have been covered in notes and tried to stop fidgeting. It would be fine he told himself firmly. He had been fine before this, settled in the surety of his own solitary future, and if this didn't work out he would be fine again. 'When this doesn't work out.' he corrected his thought. Because really there was no chance it would turn out well, nothing in real life ever did he knew. The only thing all this hope for an improbably happy ending had done for him was to throw his orderly life into chaos. Really, he thought, it would be best all the way around if he stopped this madness right now. Yes, that is what he would do. He would just not go to the meeting tonight and all the worry would end and he could move on with his life as it was. 

He took a deep breath and let the decision calm him, ignoring the tightness it also seemed to have produced in his chest. He took up his pen and began to take notes.

Still when the class was over and he was faced with the prospect of another empty evening he found he could not force himself to return to his room. Instead, almost by instinct he found his feet carrying him to the library. Pushing open the door he was greeted by a rush of warm air and the smell of dust and old books. Just a bit of the tension eased from his shoulders and he allowed himself a moment standing on the threshold to breathe and let the studious quiet surround him.

Mrs Hudson looked up from the stack of overdue notices she was addressing. She gave Mycroft the sort of assessing look he was only used to receiving at home and for the first time that day he thought about how he must look, haggard, rumpled, and about as far from the usual cool remote composure he contrived to project as possible. He had to fight an impulse to tug on the hem of his shirt in an effort to straighten it. Instead he met her eyes as levelly as he could and tried for a self assured nod. He must not have been very convincing because Mrs Hudson immediately turned to the librarian sitting at the desk next to her and said something as she stood up and walked out from behind the desk towards him. He braced himself for a torrid of well meaning and concerned words, but when she reached she merely rested a hand on his arm and asked, “Tea?” He could only nod gratefully.

A hand still on his arm she guided him back through the sorting room and into her office, shooing him into the chair in front of her desk. As she bustled around the desk, checking the kettle for water, plugging it in, and setting out cups and the teapot Mycroft let his eyes wander around the office. It was smaller than you would expect for such a large library and absolutely cluttered with books of course but also with small curios and an astonishing overabundance of dollies. It reminded him strongly of home. 

Mrs Hudson sat behind her desk and while they waited for the water to boil she chatted away about the weather and the latest news from the board of governors while Mycroft made polite noises. By the time the tea had brewed and she had fixed just the way he liked he felt more relaxed then he had in days. He sipped his tea. 

Apparently this was the signal for the serious conversation to start, and Mrs Hudson pulled no punches. “So dear, what is wrong? You have been late the last couple of days, it is clear you are not sleeping, and now you drag yourself in here looking as if your puppy died.”

“Sorry Mrs Hudson, I have just been feeling a bit under the weather.” Mycroft lied as smoothly as he could manage.

“Oh, don't you lie to me young man. It will never work. No, something has you troubled and I am not going to let you out of this room until you tell me what it is.”

“I assure you that nothing is at all the matter.”

She ignored him, “Something at home maybe? But no, you wouldn't be trying to hide that. And the thought that you are struggling in your schoolwork is absurd. So it is something personal and that you are embarrassed about.” Mycroft may have gaped at her a bit as she gave him another unexpectedly shrewd glance over a sip of her tea. “Have you been being bullied?” He shook he head no mutely. “Then it must be a matter of the heart. Who is the lucky guy?”

“I am sure I don't know what you mean!” he said, trying to sound indignant but it came out more scared. Homosexuality was not something you talked about, ever, even with the closest of friends. Just the hint of it could end all his aspirations of going into the government not to mention make his life a living hell.

“Oh, don't fret dear, it takes all sorts and no one will hear it from me. Though he might hear something from me for not treating you right, just look at the state he has put you in! Who is this young man so I can give him a right ear-bashing?”

Mycroft took in the angry, protective look on the face of the woman before him and the part of him that insisted that caring wasn't an advantage, already weary from days of fighting a lone battle again hope, conceded defeat. He sighed, “I don't know Mrs Hudson. Therein lays the problem.”

“Is that the way of it?” she asked, setting down her teacup firmly. “I think I'll need the whole story.”

And Mycroft, somewhat to his own bemusement, found the tale pouring out of him in a torrent of words he couldn't control. Of course he told her about the mix tape, the poems, and the puzzles but he also found himself talking about the hope and all his fears as well. “-so now I have this ticket for a movie at six o'clock tonight.” he concluded, not entirely sure how he had gotten there.

“No wonder you looked so frazzled when you came in! And here I am keeping you when you should be getting ready.”

“I hardly think I need-” he checked the antique mantle clock perched on one shelf for the time and was surprised to find it was well past four, “-more than an hour to prepare. Besides, I am not going.”

“Mycroft Holmes! Why in the world would you miss your date after all the work this poor boy has put in?”

“That is just it, he has done all this work and planning and at the end of it all he is just going to get me. How could I ever live up to all that?”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard. I know you know that you are the smartest person in this whole university including the staff, but you should also know that you are probably the most dryly funny. You are sweet when you don't think anyone is paying attention and thoughtful in ways that are hard to spot. Whoever this boy is he must be clever enough to see through to the good in you, and I bet he finds you adorable to boot. At least give him the chance.”

“But what if it goes wrong?” he asked.

“Well, than you have benefited by a nice lunch yesterday and a free movie today. All you will have lost is a few minutes of awkward conversation and you can sleep tonight knowing that you tried. Do you really think that you are going to get any sleep tonight wondering 'What if?'”

Mycroft looked away as if overtaken by the sudden need to study the porcelain robin on her desk. He almost whispered, “And what if it goes right?” and he felt his face growing warm at the question.

“Look dear,” Mrs Hudson's voice was kind, “Even if everything goes perfectly there is no pressure on you to do anything that you don't feel ready for.”

He thought about all the attention and gifts his secret admirer had lavished on him. “Isn't there though?”

“Certainly not! And this boy better be a perfect gentleman with you or I will set him straight right off. Or set him bend as the case maybe.” she said fiercely. She reached across the desk and patted his hand where it clutched his cold cup of tea. “This is not a time to let fear rule the roost, this is a time to be brave.”

“Bravery is just a kinder word for stupidity.” he said without much conviction.

“Bollocks.” she replied, the unexpected profanity startling a laugh from Mycroft. She continued, “You just need to have some faith in yourself and in the universe to get this right.”

He rolled his eyes at that, but had to admit that most of her arguments made sense. He wanted to know who the admirer was and be spared a lifetime of curiosity and knowing himself to be a coward. “Alright, if it will please you I'll go and when it goes horribly and embarrassingly awry I will expect you to compensate me with a batch of your scones. Double chocolate.”

“Agreed.” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Good, now that is settled. Now you had best get a move on. I am sure you'll want to change clothes to look your best and you don't want to be late!”

Mycroft looked again at his creased clothing and sighed. “Of course you are right, Mrs Hudson.” he said, standing up from the chair. Then, more warmly he added, “And thank you. Thanks for listen and for the advice.” 

She tutted at him fondly as she too stood and came towards him, pulling him into a hug. “Just be yourself and have fun, dear.” she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “Tomorrow I want to hear all about it.”

“I promise you will.”

“Good. Now off you get. Wear something blue, it will bring out your eyes.” she said as she pushed him out the door.

Mycroft walked quickly back out of the library and towards his room, trying to decide whether to wear the blue shirt or the blue jacket tonight and unaware of the small smile playing across his lips.


	6. Tuesday – Valentine's Day (Evening)

He ended up deciding on the blue shirt with a light grey argyle jumper vest and matching trousers. At first he wore a bright red tie as well before deciding against it as too formal, taking it off, and trying the shirt with the top two buttons undone. That seemed to him like he wasn't taking the date seriously enough so he put the tie back on. Then took it off again but left the shirt buttoned to the top and tried to determine if that made his neck look fat, then he looked at the time and quickly put the tie debate to the side in favor of spending the remaining few minutes taming his hair. 

Blessedly his hair had become straighter as he grew older, sparing him the ginger curls of his youth. Still he kept it short and for tonight he slicked it down carefully. Looking in the mirror he thought he resembled nothing so much as someone's pompous middle aged uncle. He sighed and resigned himself to the knowledge that he had done the best he could with what nature had given him. Checking once again that the movie ticket was safely in his wallet and tucking the black umbrella under an arm Mycroft took a deep breath, fought down his nerves, and left for his first date.

He set off at a brisk walk, knowing that he was running late as he left. Luckily the cinema was only a short walk from campus. He could probably make it on time. Halfway there that conviction took a hit when he glanced at his watch. Reluctantly he broken into a trot.

The cinema was incongruously squashed in between a large department store and a block of row houses, its grand facade with its myriad of thin windows, fluted pillars, and other frills looked decidedly out of place. Mycroft took it all in at a glance as he jogged up to the entrance. 

He stopped in front of the building and bend over gasping. It took a few moments for him to recover enough breath to straighten up and start towards the door into the lobby. The spotty teen sitting in the glass box office who had been watching him with open amusement called out, “Oi, You'll need a ticket.”

Mycroft summoned his best glare and said, “I already have my ticket, thank you.” as he swept in to the lobby with all the hauteur he could muster.

The lobby mirrored the building's exterior, all Gothic grandeur gone slightly to seed. Everything was clean and well maintained but all of it was also the worse for half a century of use. Mycroft was able to follow the threadbare path worn into the carpet from the door directly to the ticket taker's stand. There he was forced to pause for a second so he could retrieve the ticket from his wallet and hand it to another spotty, amused looking teenager. He took it with what could only be deliberate slowness, saying, “Cutting it a little close aren't you?”

“Yes, a bit.” Mycroft admitted, trying not to glare as the boy made a production out of examining the ticket.

“She must either be really hot or really crazy to have you so worked up over being late.” the boy said as he slowly punched a hole in the ticket and held it back out to him.

Mycroft ignored the jibe in favor of snatching the ticket out of his hand with a cold. “Thank you.” He then made an educated guess given the size of the theater and with the assumption that the seats would be numbered from left to right and went through the right hand door as the one that would be closest to seat B-9.

He was relieved to find the house lights still on, he had made it in time. He was less pleased though not terribly surprised to see how crowded it was. He began to make his way purposefully down the aisle but as he drew closer to the front of the theater his steps became slower and less sure until around row D his courage failed him and he came to a stop. Nervously he tried to make out anything about the middle of row B. Through the sea of overly processed hairstyles he could just make out a conspicuously large empty space. The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he took in the two empty seats just where his date was suppose to be. So it had all been an elaborate joke after all on him after all. 

For an endless moment he stared blankly at the vacant seats, the sight of them burning into his otherwise curiously blank mind until he was sure they would be there every time he closed his eyes for the foreseeable future. He forced himself to take a deep breath, locking away the pain before turning to leave. That was when movement next to the empty spots caught his eye and a slightly familiar head of unruly brown hair craned around, revealing an anxious face.

Warm brown eyes met his own and the worry melted off Greg Lestrade's face. He smiled widely at Mycroft before standing up and waving at him.

This time the shock flooding Mycroft's system was considerably more pleasant if every bit as paralyzingly. He didn't like to think about the ridiculous, dumbstruck expression he must have on his face as he looked at the handsome boy who against all logic and reason seemed to be here waiting for him. Clearly it was not a very comforting expression, he could see the worry returning to Greg's face and he couldn't have that. He forced himself to start moving again towards his seat.

Unfortunately no amount of intelligence or strategy could make sidling your way passed a row of already seated movie-goers look suave and Mycroft actually manage to knock into the last person with the umbrella he was carrying. It bounced back towards him and tangled in between his feet, sending him into a gracelessly tumble. Greg caught his arm with the ease of the naturally athletic, steading him. Blushing Mycroft stammered an apology to the man he had inadvertently hit before turning to fully face Greg. His blush deepened as he realized that Greg still was holding his arm. 

“Greg, hello-” he started at the same time Greg said, “I am so glad you made it-”

They both stopped, awkwardly waiting for the other to finish talking but before either of them could continue the house lights began to dim. 

Greg grinned at him in the fading light, “Looks like you are just in time too.” He gave a little pull on Mycroft's arm, steering him to his seat. “I hope you'll like the movie.”

Mycroft reached down to unfold the seat carefully, determined not to make any more of a fool of himself, while he answered, “Oh, I am sure I will.”

It was only after he was seated and looking up up at the screen, Greg's hand now resting near his on the armrest, that it occurred to him that he had no idea what movie they were here to see. He was therefore surprised when after a few adverts for inane looking modern movies the picture that started was in black and white. He heart leaped as the black screen changed into a shot of a black statue overwritten with the title in white and he wondered if Greg had known that The Maltese Falcon was one of his favorite movies. He thought about the tea prepared just right and the knowledge he had displayed about Mycroft's class schedule and decided that he probably had.

As the familiar story of Sam Spade unfolded in front of him Mycroft felt himself relax into it. He was quickly caught up but he thought he glimpsed Greg's face turn towards him in the reflected glow from the screen once or twice, watching him watch the movie with a smile. It might have been creepy or embarrassing but somehow it wasn't. And when Greg's hand found his in the darkness halfway though he unselfconsciously gave it a welcoming squeeze, holding it until the end of the film when the theater lights coming back on brought him back to the knowledge of where they were and he reluctantly let go.

“Enjoyed the movie then?” Greg asked, a bit cheekily.

“Yes, but I suspect you knew that I would.” 

“Might have done,” he admitted.

“How?” Mycroft asked. The question came out as more of a demand than he had intended it to.

Greg, now standing up in the rapidly emptying theater shrugged and replied teasingly, “A little bird told me you liked film noir and detectives.”

“Who though? I don't know anyone.”

“Well, shouldn't that make it easy to figure out?” When Mycroft just narrowed his eyes at him in mock indignation Greg just smiled and continued, “Well, I have to say I was pleased to hear it though.” 

“Because you are studying to be a detective yourself.” Mycroft said before he could think better of it. In his experience people rarely enjoyed having their motives dissected for them. He looked down at his shoes, not wanting to see the look of suspicion and and distrust that was the usual reaction whenever he proved he knew too much on Greg's face.

Again Greg surprised him by chuckling as if Mycroft had said something entertaining rather than upsetting. “Exactly right. Cor, you are brilliant, aren't you? You can see why I was happy to have that going for me. Besides, I was told once that I look a bit like Bogart.”

“That is clearly untrue!” Mycroft objected. “I suppose your eyes are similar, even if the black and white doesn't show his eyes color so I can properly compare them and you both have a strong chin. However your face is not nearly so long and forbidding. You are certainly more classical handsome by anyone's measure.” Mycroft concluded. Then he realized what he had just said and he felt he cheeks heating in embarrassment. 

“Glad you think so.” Greg answered, his own face a bit red. 

They were now the only people left in the theater and Mycroft suddenly felt too conspicuous. “Looks like we should probably be on our way.” he said regretfully. 

“Um, right.” Greg ran a nervous hand though his hair. “I actually have a dinner planned if you'd like. I mean, you don't have to if you are busy or anything.” He finished in a rush.

Mycroft smiled at him, “That would be delightful.”


	7. Tuesday – Valentine's Day (Night)

Stepping back out into the street Mycroft was somehow surprised to see it was night. Intellectually he had known that the movie was almost two hours long but somehow sitting with his hand in Greg's it hadn't felt like time was passing. It was a trite thing to feel, almost cliched, he chided himself. Still that didn't make it less true.

Rain was also falling steadily from the dark sky, making the people waiting for the next feature crowd together uncomfortably close under the theater's shallow awning. Mycroft pushed through them with some difficulty managing to make his way to the edge of the covered area and a free patch of stone wall he could lean against in studied nonchalance while he waited for Greg to finish using the lavatory. He actually rather had to use the lav himself but the thought of trying to continuing their conversation while doing so did not seem very appealing, he could wait for whatever restaurant Greg had planned.

Fourteen minutes later he was regretting that decision. Even though most of the people had now made their way into the building he stayed where he was leaning against the now uncomfortably cold wall. When the fifteen minute mark passed he would be forced to conclude that Greg had come to his senses and sneaked out the lavatory window. 

Fortunately Greg emerged from the lobby only thirty seconds later and walked directly over to him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry that took so long. I had to make a quick call but the lobby payphone turned out to be busy.”

Cold and perhaps still somewhat miffed at the worrying wait Mycroft asked, “Had to check in with your mother did you?” It came out on the wrong side of teasing and he winced slightly, wishing that he could take the question back.

Greg looked briefly startled, then smiled. Brightly he answered, “Yeah, and Mother is thrilled the date is going well. She expects you for dinner on Sunday.”

“God, really?”

“No, not really you berk. But I am insulted that you are not keen to meet my mother.” he said, cuffing Mycroft lightly on the arm. His smile dimmed and he reached back out and put a hand against Mycroft's arm. “Bloody hell, you are freezing! Sorry, I should have had you wait in the lobby for me.” As he spoke he shrugged out of the slightly battered and frayed denim jacket he wore and held it out to Mycroft. “Here.”

“Oh, I couldn't.” Mycroft demurred.

“Go on now, I promise it is clean... Mostly.” he said with a wink. When Mycroft still hesitated he stepped forward and made as if to sling the jacket around the protesting boy's shoulder. “Come on, I insist. After all this is the second time this week I have dragged you out in the rain.”

“If you are sure you'll not be too cold...”

“Nah, I am hot blooded. Besides, it is not that far to where we are going and someone was wise enough to bring an umbrella.” 

“Ah, yes. I meant to return this to you. Thanks for leaving it for me.”

“No worries,” he said taking the umbrella so Mycroft could put his arms through the jacket sleeves and opening it. “Turned out better then I could have planned in the end, didn't it?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft conceded, as he moved in closer than normally acceptable to the other boy under the pretext of sharing the umbrella. Only self-consciousness and an awareness of the eyes that might be watching kept him from linking his arm with Greg's as they walked away from the theater.

The soft rain seemed to envelope them in their own private world and Mycroft felt almost dizzy from the sheer intimacy of the moment, wrapped up in the warmth of Greg's jacket and company. They chatted aimlessly, comparing impressions of the movie and opinions about the golden age of Hollywood, which Greg was not very well versed on, and talking about the rise and fall of the detective novel, which he was. 

As surprisingly absorbing as the conversation was Mycroft still spared a corner of his mind to note the path they were taking through the town, trying to guess their destination. He was increasingly puzzled as they passed by restaurants and coffeehouses without stopping. When they turned a corner and cut into a narrow alleyway that would take them back onto university grounds Mycroft couldn't contain his curiosity anymore. “Where are we going?” he blurted out.

Greg's grin was pure mischief, “You'll see soon enough. Don't you trust me?”

There was nothing for it, Mycroft matched his grin and answered, “Lead on.”

As they walked towards farther into the campus their animated discussion slowly tapered into silence as Mycroft devoted more thought to just where they could be bound. Still he was surprised when Greg came to a stop in front of the library and even more surprised to see an unfamiliar bespectacled young man standing next to the door. 

Greg waved at the stranger, “Hey, Mike.”

“Greg,” the man said with a bit of a terse nod. “Lovely evening isn't it? Great for standing about in the rain.”

“Er, yeah. Sorry about that. I didn't think you'd beat us here.”

“By more than ten minutes.”

“Really? Wow, we must have been walking slowly. I am sorry mate. I owe you big.”

“Delivery in the rain on Valentine's Day? Yeah, you do.”

Greg looked down at the pavement and shuffled his feet a bit, “Yeah well, hope my undying gratitude is enough for you.”

“More like my unending pints next time we go out after a game.” Mike muttered.

“Whatever you say, tosser.” Greg said, waving the comment off before he turned towards Mycroft again. “Sorry Mycroft, I am being rude. This is my mate Mike Stanford. We are on the football team together and he is Mad Mike on the radio. Mike, this is Mycroft Holmes.” 

Mycroft's heart did a funny sort of leap hearing the happiness and pride in Greg's voice as he introduced him to his friend. Automatically Mycroft reached out a hand to shake Mike's, a smile on his face as he said, “Mike, how lovely to meet you.”

Mike helplessly shuffled the stack of boxes he was holding, and smiled wryly back at Mycroft, “Sorry, think I'll have to skip the handshake, but it is great to finally meet you too. Heavens know this wanker never shuts up about you.”

“Mike!” Greg exclaimed.

“Yeah, yeah whatever Romeo. Take your bloody pizzas so I can get back to work. We are unbelievably busy and you were just lucky I was able to take my break when you called. As it is I am going to be late getting back.”

Grumbling, Greg did take the boxes from Mike's out stretched arms and Mycroft and Mike were are to shake hands as they said polite goodbyes. 

As Mike trudged away under his own umbrella Greg turned to Mycroft and asked, “Would you mind getting the door? I am afraid my hands are rather full.”

“Get the door?” Mycroft repeated. “You aren't counting on me having a key and breaking you in are you?”

“Not hardly. Just open the door, My.”

“My?” Mycroft asked as he pulled on the handle, finding that it was indeed unlocked.

Greg looked abashed, “Er, sorry Mycroft. Are you not a fan of nicknames?”

“I don't know,” Mycroft said, holding open the door. “I have never had one. It might grow on me.”

From the depths of the library a woman's voice called out, “Yoohoo boys, is that you?”

“Mrs Hudson?” Mycroft called back. 

A head popped out of one of the back offices, revealing a very pleased looking Mrs Hudson. “Oh good, you are here at last. Just let me grab my coat and I can head home.” she said, beaming at them before her head disappeared again.

Mycroft turned and arched an eyebrow at Greg, “So may I assume that this is the source of all the reconnaissance you have on me?”

“Yeah,” he replied, looking sheepish. “She might have caught me mooning over you while you were shelving books one day and thrown some pointed hints at me.”

“'Mooning' over me?”

“Her words not mine, but yeah, I can't say it wasn't true.” 

“Oh,” Mycroft said then had no idea what to follow that up with. To his embarrassment he felt the blush creeping back across his face. 

Luckily he was saved from the awkward silence by Mrs Hudson's return, now wrapped in her improbably purple coat. “Greg dear, everything is right back where you left it. I also made some scones for the two of you, they are double chocolate.” She said it with a wink at Mycroft as she handed him a foil covered plate.

“Ta Mrs Hudson,” Greg said.

“And you will remember shut off the lights and lock the door when you leave?”

“Yes Mrs Hudson.”

“Good. And make sure you don't leave a mess for me, I am not your housekeeper.”

“We won't Mrs Hudson.” Greg answered, rolling his eyes.

But Mrs Hudson was immune to teenage scorn. Throwing one arm around each boy, she gathered them together into a somewhat startled group hug and cooed, “Oh, I am just so happy for the two of you! Do have a good time now!” Then she kissed them both soundly on the cheek before heading for the door.

“Thank you,” Mycroft muttered shyly at the same time Greg said, “We'll try. Have a good night.”

With a last wave and a smile back over her shoulder at them she pushed out into the rainy night.

For a few second both boys just looked after her. Now that they were alone Mycroft felt as if the atmosphere between them was somehow heavier. Greg seemed to feel it too, he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, hands tight on the pizza boxes. He nervously cleared his throat, “Well, umm, if you'll just follow me...” he said, starting towards the back of the library.

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed unnecessarily, just glad to have the tension broken.

Greg led them to the same table he most often sat at during Mycroft's shift, only now one end of the battered oak surface was covered by a cheerful red and white checkered tablecloth. In the center of the covered area two places were set facing each other across the table, a vase with a single short stemmed rose between them.

“I wanted to have candles,” Greg babbled, still sounding nervous. “But Mrs Hudson absolutely put her foot down about open flames around the books. But the rose is for you though.”

For perhaps the first time in his life Mycroft tried to smile reassuringly, “It all looks lovely Greg, thank you. If you don't mind though I am going to go wash my hands before we start.”

Greg looked a bit relieved. “Great!” he said, then winced a bit at his over-enthusiasm. “I mean, good. That is fine, it'll give me a chance to get everything else set up.”

When he returned, hands clean and feeling relieved from the lavatory, Mycroft was impressed by amount of food now displayed across the table. Both pizza boxes were open, one revealing a pepperoni pizza and the smaller one garlic bread, but there was also a bowl of salad, glasses of water, an open bottle of red wine, bottles of Coca-Cola, a square pan of something baked and dusted with a brown powder that he assumed was dessert, as well as Mrs Hudson's unwrapped plate of scones.

Greg was standing next to the side of the table that was not covered by the tablecloth, fiddling with a tape deck. He turned when he heard Mycroft approach, hitting a button as he did so. Something slow and sweet started playing softly in the background as he moved to pull out Mycroft's chair with a small flourish. “Here. I hope you like Caesar salad.”

Not about to admit that he actually did not care for Caesar salads, Mycroft said, “I am certainly willing to take a stab at it.”

Greg's laugh was instant and gratifying. “Just one stab? Wouldn't twenty-three be more traditional?”

“Touche.” Mycroft chuckled in return. When Greg started to serve him the salad he waved him off. “I am perfectly able to serve myself. Please, just relax and take your seat.”

“If you are sure? I mean I was hoping to get a big tip here for good service.”

“You still might.” Mycroft said, then couldn't help a blush at the obvious innuendo.

Tactfully Greg ignored the blush and changed the subject, offering the bottle of wine.

The food was quite good and again Mycroft found that time seemed to be slipping away, certainly helped by the single glass of wine he drank but more by the excellent company. By the time they had finished the delicious tiramisu that Greg admitted to making himself they were already well through the second side of the tape. Mycroft was helping him pack away the leftovers and dishes into the large red ice chest Greg had brought everything in when Greg suddenly and inexplicably froze. Mycroft looked at him, puzzled, “What is it?”

“Sorry, My. It is just that this song that is starting is the last one on the tape and when I put it on there I was planning, well, hoping really that you would dance to it with me. Sorry if that is silly or if you don't want to. It is fine.”

Mycroft felt a lump form in his throat, choking off any words he could have replied with. Instead he dropped the tablecloth he had just finished folding back onto the table and moved towards Greg holding out his arms.

Formal dance lessons, with their intricate patterns and the stilted steps of his classmates had been one of the things Mycroft had loathed most in his secondary school. This was nothing at all like them. Greg just pulled him in close, both hands demurely on his lower back, and swayed in place to the music. Mycroft took his cue from the other boy, relaxing into the slow rhythm of the song and reveling in the feel of Greg pressed against him. 

When Greg leaned up, closing the scant couple of inches between them to press his lips to Mycroft's Mycroft was amazed at how right the kiss felt. Although he had never in his wildest dreams thought that he would be kissed he had still assumed that when one was kissed it would be like fireworks going off, earth-shattering and intense. This kiss was gentle and undemandingly sweet. Rather than shattering him into millions of pieces as he had expected this kiss melted him, smoothing out all the jagged places in his soul and making him feel whole.

There was no measuring a moment like that, with the warmth filling him and the lyrics to the song swirling around in his agreeably haze mind. 'I know this much is true' indeed, he thought.

It was not at all worth the trade when Greg pulled away, allowing him to breathe. Mycroft only tolerated it because Greg looked every bit as breathless and flushed as he felt. And then Greg smiled at him with what looked like all the joy in the world and whispered, “So beautiful.” before he swooped in for another kiss. This time Mycroft did think that the world must have stopped entirely because there could be nothing more than this kiss.

When the song ended filling the library with silence Greg again pulled back, this time with a regretful sigh. He raised one hand to rest against the side of Mycroft's neck as he said, “You are so lovely and it is a real wrench to end this so soon but it is late and we both have class tomorrow...”

Unaccountably Mycroft's heart dropped at the dismissal and he took a small step back from Greg. The hurt must have been written across his face because Greg immediately closed the distance again to kiss him on the very corner of his mouth. “Oh, it isn't like that. I would love nothing more than to stay here forever kissing you, but you know eventually the library is going to reopen and they are going to make us stop anyway. If it ever has to end it might as well while we can still get some sleep tonight.”

Mycroft must have looked less than convinced because Greg continued, “And of course, you will let me walk you to your room, right?”

“But what will you do with all the dinner things?”

“Oh, I'll just put them back in Mrs Hudson's office. I am sure she won't mind and it will give me a reason to be back here tomorrow during your shift.”

The thought of seeing Greg again so soon was enough to thaw the rest of Mycroft's concern and return a smile to his face.

Even though the walk back to his room was every bit as rainy and even more cold than the walk from the theater had been he found that he didn't care. Once again Greg had insisted that he wear his coat and when Mycroft had tried to give it back Greg had refused to take it, saying, “You go on and keep it, at least until this cold weather lets up a bit. It looks better on you anyhow.”

Flustered Mycroft had objected, “But you'll need your coat.”

“Nah, I don't think I'll ever be cold again.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense and you know it.” Greg asserted, then he pulled him in for another melting, world-halting kiss against his dorm room door, wishing him a good night and leaving before Mycroft could gather his wits back to argue more. Which was blatantly unfair.

Hours later as Mycroft lay wide awake in his bed he found himself constantly pressing his fingertips to lips that still seemed to tingle from those extraordinary kisses. He was overflowing with excitement knowing he would see Greg again in a few short hours and not even the exhaustion from the restless night before could damping his emotions enough to let him sleep. 

He tossed and turned until he was forced to relent to sentiment. He got out of bed and padded over to his closet and took down the jacket he had carefully hung there. Knowing that he was being foolish but unable to stop himself he shrugged on the jacket over his night shirt and returned to bed. Once he was again underneath the covers he hugged the worn denim around him and finally was able to slip off to sleep.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song they slow dance to is True, by Spandau Ballet  
> This fic has been a wonderful experience for me, due entirely to those of you who have been reading along with it as I published. I can never thank you all enough for your support and patience with me as I wrote this. Know that I love you all.  
>   
> Thank you all again.  
> 


End file.
